Worthy
by TA Salmalin
Summary: The invasion is over, but all is not well. Bruce is trying to convince Tony that he's too dangerous to be around people, and Tony is equally determined to convince him otherwise. Then Bruce is captured by General Ross and it's not just his spirit that needs saving


Warnings: for language, violence and torture

* * *

"What are you doing out there?" Tony demanded.

Bruce peered around the doorframe, wringing his hands and fidgeting with his glasses. "Uh, nothing," he muttered.

"Would you like some dinner?" Pepper asked with a welcoming smile.

"Oh, um…I don't want to interrupt," Bruce demurred, taking a few steps back. "I was just…going to the kitchen…it's not important."

He was too late, though, because Tony sprang out of his seat and took back those few steps and more, throwing an arm around Bruce's shoulders and dragging him into the dining room. Pepper didn't even blink as he manhandled the other scientist into a chair. "How many times do I have to tell you that you're welcome to eat with us?"

Bruce hunched over in his chair, trying to make himself as small as possible. It hadn't worked yet, but one of these days he would actually succeed in making himself invisible. It was only a matter of time and willpower.

"Grab a plate, big guy!" Tony enthused, seemingly unaware of his guest's reluctance.

Bruce squirmed in his seat, but he wouldn't put it past Tony to start force-feeding him if he didn't obey. He snaked a hand out and grabbed the nearest take-out container, contents unknown, and a pair of disposable chopsticks. "Um…all right."

He slid the chopsticks out of their little paper holder in painfully awkward silence. He devoted more willpower to his efforts to become invisible.

"I'm glad you decided to join us!" Pepper said brightly. "I almost didn't believe it when Tony told me that you've been here almost a week!"

Bruce startled and snapped his chopsticks badly, leaving one a full inch shorter than the other. "It's…well, thank you for inviting me, Miss Potts."

"Pepper."

"…"

"So!" Tony said brightly. "How was science today?"

Despite his best efforts, a tiny smile twitched at the corners of Bruce's mouth. "It was fine. Good. Thank you for letting me use your lab equipment."

" _Your_ lab equipment," Tony insisted.

"I'm, well…how was your science? Did you build anything today?"

To Bruce's considerable relief, Tony was off and running about an update to the suit, only pausing for a few moments when Pepper shoved a forkful of takeout Thai in his mouth. Bruce poked at his own container and resolutely refused to meet Pepper's searching gaze.

The "meal" finally ended and he practically ran from the table. In the relative safety of his own room—which was larger than most of the places he'd lived in the last few years combined—he sank down to the floor and stared at the wall. What was he still doing here? Why had he agreed to come in the first place? Why—

A sharp knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. He opened his mouth, though whether he could have mustered up the nerve to tell Tony to go away while a guest in his home was up for debate, but it hardly mattered because Tony just walked right in. It was Tony of course. This was part of their nightly routine.

"You really need to get some art or something," Tony commented. "Or at least a poster. You like rock bands?"

Normally Bruce would make neutral sounds while Tony talked about whatever came into his head, but he just wasn't in the mood tonight. "Why are you doing this, Tony?"

Tony pasted a smile on his face. "Doing what?"

"You know what. Why am I here?"

A strange expression crossed Tony's face, like it was physically painful for him to have a serious conversation, but he sat down on the floor, just far enough into Bruce's personal space to make him uncomfortable. "You know there are, like, hundreds of chairs in this building."

"I'm fine," Bruce said. And he was. The floor was clean…it was even carpeted!

"Right," Tony said slowly, taking in the bare walls, bare floor, single (bare) table and perfectly made, perfectly unused bed. A small bag and neatly folded blanket were the only other things in the room. "Well—"

"Tony."

"Fine." Tony fidgeted with his shirt, tapped out the 1812 overture on the bedframe, then whipped out his phone and sent a text.

By contrast, Bruce barely even seemed to be breathing he was so still. "What am I doing here, Tony?" he repeated patiently.

"Science," Tony said stubbornly.

"How many times has SHIELD contacted you to ask when I'll be removing myself from the city?"

Unable to sit a moment longer, Tony sprang to his feet. "Who cares!?"

"I'm sure they've been telling you the same things I have: it's not safe for me to be here. I could have an Incident at any time and—"

"No, no don't you give me that, too. _You_ , my sometimes-green friend, are a hero! You saved the city, you saved me, you saved the whole fucking world! And I honestly couldn't tell you what pisses me off more—that they don't appreciate that, or that you don't!"

Bruce stared, eyes wide.

Tony rolled his shoulders a little, but otherwise didn't look nearly as embarrassed as that outburst really warranted. "Seriously, Bruce. You're a goddamn superhero."

"I…appreciate that you think that," Bruce said slowly. "You're still wrong, but it's…nice, I guess. But Tony...I am not worth all this trouble. And I don't mind, really. A lot of people dream of traveling the world."

Tony's mouth opened and closed a few times. "I don't…I don't even know how to respond to such patent ridiculousness. You don't mind? Living on the run, sleeping on the ground? From what Fury tells me, you were on the edge of starvation, trying to 'cure' yourself with…with a mortar and pestle! How does that not bother you?"

Bruce rolled his shoulders, trying to remove himself from the conversation without actually, well, removing himself. Tony's inability to focus on anything disappeared, and he focused his considerable attention on Bruce. "Tony...do you know what I've been doing? What I've really been doing? Sure, I'm on the run, I'm in hiding. Or I thought I was, anyway. But I wasn't…I've given up on finding a cure. I'm never going to be rid of the Other Guy, not by finding a miracle cure, not even by…"

"Killing yourself?" Tony finished hotly. "Is that what you were going to say?"

"Yes," Bruce said evenly. "But that didn't work either, so if I couldn't spare the world from having to deal with me, the least I could do was try and give something back, even the scales a little—not that that would ever happen, either. But I hardly expect now to be when I start getting what I want. Anyway…there's always someone who needs a doctor. So I set bones, deliver babies…once, in Uruguay, I had to synthesize a penicillin-substitute out of plants I found in the jungle…" he trailed off. "What?"

Tony attempted to compose his expression into something that wasn't slackjawed amazement, but he was pretty sure he'd failed. "Nothing. I just…I knew the Other Guy was a superhero, taking out a fuck-ton of alien invaders and snatching me out of the air in a manly fashion and not at all like a damsel in distress no matter what Clint says…but I didn't realize that Bruce Banner was a superhero, too."

"Oh no—"

"Shut up. People think I'm a genius because I can make bigger guns than anybody else. You're fucking _creating life._ "

"That's not really—"

"And you cured a plague with some random local fauna? This is why I need you here! At this rate I'm going to hand you a microscope and a number two pencil and when I come back you'll have cured world hunger!"

"Now you're just being ridiculous," Bruce said weakly, curled up under the onslaught of words like he could sink into the floor. Or just wishing he could.

Finally, miraculously…Tony backed off. He took a step back. His body language relaxed from its previous state of confrontation. "Well, I can see this is going to be a long-term project," he said easily, moving to the door. "But you're a scientist, and eventually you're going to have to face the facts. You're a superhero, whether you're big and green or short and geeky."

" _I'm_ short?" Bruce muttered, rallying a bit.

Tony ignored him, flouncing out of the room like a diva instead of a businessman and superhero.

Bruce had almost finished his relieved exhale when the door crashed open again.

"Oh, and Bruce?"

"What now, Tony?"

"You're totally worth it."

And then he was gone.

Bruce rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, wondering how this had become his life. How could Tony be so stupid? How could he have such blind faith in Bruce, when everyone else had long since given up? How could—?

The door opened again.

"Tony, I think I've had all the Stark Therapy I can handle for one night," Bruce said wryly, eyes tracking an interesting crack in the ceiling. Fixating on small details of a room was one of his early coping strategies, and the regression was a little disheartening, but he was feeling a little emotionally overwhelmed right now—and that never ended well for anyone.

Bruce frowned—Tony was never this quiet.

He opened his eyes and a dozen tranquilizer darts embedded themselves in his skin. His vision flashed green, then everything went black.

* * *

The next time Bruce opened his eyes, he knew exactly where he was. Well, that wasn't quite accurate. He didn't know the street address, the city, hell, the country.

But he did know he was in a lab.

 _Tony…how could you…?_

His skin flushed green. His veins bulged out. He felt his bones creaking.

Shouts. Chaos. A needle.

He went under again.

* * *

The next time he awoke, it was slow. He felt like there was an elephant on his chest, and each eyelid weighed a hundred pounds. He forced them open anyway.

His mind seemed as heavy as his body, sluggish and oddly distracted. _Drugs_ , he thought vaguely, unable to muster up any emotion to connect to that word.

He sensed movement, then unfamiliar voices began talking.

"Sir, he's waking up again."

"How is that possible? That dose would have killed an elephant!"

 _Is that the elephant that's sitting on me?_ Bruce wondered vaguely.

"We'll have to give him another dose."

"No, it's too soon! I'm surprised there's still room for blood with all the tranquilizer he's got running through him!"

 _That poor elephant._

"It'll be our heads if he wakes up!"

"It'll be our heads if we kill him by accident! Do you know how valuable he is?"

 _I like elephants. And penguins. I want a penguin._

"What is going on here, gentlemen?"

Bruce's scattered mind struggled to function. He knew that voice. That voice was important.

"Sir, the tranquilizers aren't working."

"So give him more!"

"Sir, he's going to go into cardiac arrest."

"That's what all this equipment is for, doctor! Did you go to medical school or not?"

"I don't—"

"If he wakes all the way up, we're all going to die. Give him the damn tranquilizer."

"…yes, sir."

A face appeared directly in Bruce's line of vision. "At last…"

The heady rush of yet more drugs sent Bruce catapulting back into the darkness, but not before his beleaguered mind made the connection.

 _Ross…_

* * *

 _General Ross. He's here. He's found me._

Bruce felt a little less spacy this time, and had the sense to keep his eyes closed and his body still. But his mind refused to follow suit.

 _He came to the Tower. Tony must have let him in._

It was surprising how much that thought hurt. Everyone thought Bruce was a monster, including Bruce. Why it should come as a shock that Tony would feel the same way, when all the evidence said that he should be put down like a rabid animal—

 _He lied. Tony lied. He said I was worth it but he lied lied lied_

"Are you back with us, Doctor Banner?"

Giving up the pretense, Bruce opened his eyes.

There was Ross, standing over him with victory in his eyes.

"Looks like we've finally found the right combination of drugs," Ross gloated. "We have quite the battery of tests to run, and we didn't want you running off or dying unexpectedly."

"Wouldn't…want…to in…convenience…you," Bruce rasped, glaring at him with all his (pitiful) strength.

"Yes, yes, I should have known that all that time with Stark would give you a smart mouth," Ross said dismissively, his triumph not diminished by the empty show of bravado. "But perhaps a bit more sedative is in order…you shouldn't have any muscle control at all…" He waved to someone Bruce couldn't see.

Bruce flinched at the name like it was a physical blow.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about Stark. He's going through a hippie phase right now, but he'll come around soon enough, and to waste the weapons that mind could create…well, it'd be unpatriotic!"

Bruce blinked a few times, wondering if this latest battery of drugs had affected him more than he'd realized. Nothing Ross was saying about Tony—about Stark—made any sense whatsoever. "Wha…?" he managed, the muscles in his jaw abruptly ceasing to cooperate halfway through the word.

Ross laughed—laughed! "You don't think those Hulkbuster units we had appeared out of thin air, did you? Stark designed them for me. Personally. Beautiful machinery, no doubt about that. And he forgot, after war got a little too up close and personal, that he once worked _with_ SHIELD and America instead of against them. Forgot that there are plenty of agents not too keen on his new lovey-dovey embrace everyone position. Forgot that his business and Tower have been infiltrated before, and they could be again."

Bruce couldn't make his mouth work. "Ahhh…ehhh?"

"Oh he'll never know what happened," Ross assured him. "The moron. He'll probably think you snuck out to hide in the boondocks like you always do. And even if he doesn't…who'd miss you? You're hardly worth the effort."

 _He…he snuck into the Tower…Tony didn't know…Tony didn't tell…_

"The doctors are all baffled by your neurological readings. Sometimes they're totally flat, sometimes they're going crazy—they think it's the Hulk, of course, though they have no idea why. I have two guys with more Ph.D.'s than you who are convinced that you are brain dead right now. They think it's better that you have some level of awareness since the machines are obviously not working properly. So good news: you'll know everything that's happening to you, but you won't be able to a damn thing about it." Ross leaned in, a gross parody of intimacy as he spoke from mere inches away. "No monster. No escape."

With a sharp gesture, Ross stepped back and a swarm of doctors descended. Bruce couldn't turn his head or move, so he was forced to lie there passively, eyes darting back in forth, while he was moved and prodded and who knew what else. At one point they drew a blood sample.

Ross appeared again, and his smile was deeply, deeply unsettling. "Well. Word is that the monster reacts to stimuli. Shall we get started?"

There was a hum of machinery, and Bruce's world lit up in pain.

He screamed, a long, keening wail that went on and on and on.

Minutes, hours, days later, he registered that the pain had stopped. He panted wildly, his eyes rolling in his head, still the only part of his body he could move.

"Interesting," Ross said, from impossibly far away. "I really thought you would pass out."

Off to the side, the various scientists were exclaiming over their readings. He could recognize the gist of it, even if he couldn't manage to discern what exactly was so exciting.

He felt more blood being drawn.

"We need to hang an IV," one of the doctors said.

"What data we do have on this guy says that his blood replenishes itself abnormally quickly," Ross said. "It's part of our strategy."

"I understand that, sir, but if he's too dehydrated the blood won't flow as easily."

"…fine. But hold off on the food bag; no need to waste resources on something that doesn't need them."

With those words ( _no need to waste resources…some_ thing…) Bruce knew that he was in more trouble than he'd possibly ever been. So he did something that he almost never did. He actively reached for the Hulk.

Nothing happened. He couldn't even feel the stirring of Otherness that had been a constant in his life since the accident. And with that, he couldn't push back the sickening, icy fear any longer. He was here again. They were going to hurt him, use him to hurt others, replicate him into an army of monsters and he would be the progenitor of the next Cold War—or the Apocalypse.

"Shall we try the next setting?" one of the doctors asked.

"How much blood does he have?" Ross shot back.

Bruce whimpered.

And then the pain started again.

* * *

Bruce was getting really sick of waking up like this. You'd think he'd be more used to it.

As he blinked and attempted to rub the grogginess out of his eyes, he tried to remember what important thing he just knew he was forgetting. But between the pain and the drugs and the pain his brain wasn't in top form.

If he couldn't remember, he could still gather data.

His arms were a sickly mix of black, purple and yellow, the deep bruising causing a steady ache that was proving very distracting.

Data. Think.

He was naked. Not exactly uncommon for him. His entire body was the same mess of thick bruising, though Bruce couldn't remember how it had happened. Even the most methodical beating wouldn't result in this—he looked like he was wearing a bruise-colored bodysuit. Had he been crushed by something? Why wasn't there any blood? And if he had been in such a serious accident, why hadn't the Other Guy thrown a fit?

Bruce pushed himself up on his elbows, then to a sitting position. The world swam around him.

 _Men in surgical scrubs._

 _Straps._

 _An IV._

 _Drugs._

 _Pain._

 _PAIN_

With a gasp, he tore himself out of the—image, memory? He tried to lift his arm, but he couldn't move. Trapped. He was trapped!

Bruce struggled against his invisible bonds, instinctively reaching for a presence that was still frustratingly absent. He could almost hear the Other Guy's roar…his usual response to any threat…

Wait.

He _could_ hear it.

 _A needle._

 _A voice._

 _Ross!_

 _Pain._

Bruce shook himself, hard. Blood dripped from the bend of his right arm. And he still couldn't move. Had he…gone mad?

And he'd once thought that he'd sunk as low as he could go. If he'd finally lost it, and he was still an indestructible rage monster…he could kill anyone…everyone…the roaring was filling his ears…

No. That wasn't right. He'd never heard the Othe—all right, the Hulk, with his physical ears. Couldn't bear to watch the footage of himself, and of course they couldn't both be present at the same time…

Bruce forced his neck to turn, noting absently that the room he was in was vast and empty and very…white. What was going on?

Then he saw what was behind him. The Hulk. It couldn't be anything else, though his memories of being the Hulk were fuzzy at best. The beast paced behind a glass wall, stretching out into infinity on both sides, keeping them separate.

Was he…cured?

 _Pain._

 _PAIN._

 _PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN_.

A roar broke him out of it this time. His arm drooped strangely, like something was very wrong with the bone. The bruising was darker. He felt like he'd been repeatedly trampled by elephants. So, not cured then, just in military custody. And in a very…strange…prison. Or something.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the Hulk again. But this time he had a theory.

"I'm in my mind, aren't I?"

The Hulk stopped beating his massive hands against the wall, eyes narrowing.

"Can you…understand me?" Bruce asked, feeling foolish for talking to himself…or…whatever. He felt foolish.

The Hulk grunted.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. He hadn't believed Tony when he claimed that the Hulk actually interacted with the rest of the team during the invasion, but apparently there were still things he didn't know about the Hulk. "I must be having a dissociative episode. Not unexpected, given the nature of the stimulus. And this is a manifestation of my subconscious, and the wall…is the sedative? And these injuries, they're supposed to be the damage to my body. The representation—"

An irritated roar interrupted his babbling. "Let Hulk out!"

Bruce was so shocked he actually fell over. "You…you talk!?"

The Hulk gave him a look that clearly said 'you're an idiot.'

"Umm…right, obviously you just did. I just…have you always been able to talk? Never mind, we can discuss this later. Or, you can discuss it with someone, and they can relay it to me? What else can you—"

The Hulk snorted. "Banner talk too much."

"I—well, I guess we both have habits that annoy the other," Bruce said after a slack-jawed pause. "But you're right, I—we—need to get out of here. Who knows how many samples they've taken already." He scanned his surroundings, confirming that nothing had changed. "If this wall really is a physical manifestation of the dampening effect of the sedative…" he trailed off as the Hulk started looking annoyed again. Had he always been so expressive? "Er, I mean, I think we should just…reach for each other. Physically act out the mental effort."

Suiting actions to words, he pressed both palms up against the barrier, directly opposite the Hulk's massive left fist.

With a confused sort of grunt, the Hulk slammed his fist ineffectually against the barrier.

"I think it would be better if you just _reached—_ "

"Hulk smash!"

"…well, I guess it doesn't really matter."

Bruce strained and the Hulk raged, and it might have been wishful thinking but it seemed like they were getting just a little bit closer…

Raw agony ripped through every nerve ending and Bruce collapsed to the ground, attempting to ride out the pain. The flurry of the Hulk's fists made an interesting counterpoint to the pounding in his head, but it was oddly touching that he was at least trying to help. Bruce curled up on his side, back to the invisible wall, which oddly enough made him feel a tiny bit better. Experimentally, he rolled away. Much better.

"Well, that sucked," he said aloud, laughing a little hysterically at his own understatement. "It seems that trying to overcome the sedative disrupts my little dissociative bubble and knocks me back into my physical body. Is that really what I should be feeling right now?"

The Hulk blinked, obviously struggling to understand. "Banner hurt?" he asked finally.

"Yeah, Banner is hurt. Ross has us. Again."

That name the Hulk recognized. "Ross!" he roared, beating furiously against the wall. "Danger! Hurt! Hulk smash Ross!"

"I would really rather you didn't kill anyone," Bruce said, not as sincerely as he might have hoped. Ninety percent of his Incidents had been instigated by General Ross attacking him, and yes he was responsible for his own and the Hulk's actions, but he couldn't help but wonder what might have happened if he'd been left to disappear, to manage his condition on his own. He shook his head as if to physically stop that train of thought. He had no one to blame but himself, and certainly not General Ross, who was trying to keep people safe.

And breed an army of monsters, but that was a separate issue.

The Hulk was clearly done being patient—and who'd have thought that he could be patient at all? "Free Hulk!" he insisted. "Banner! Free Hulk!"

Bruce considered the pain waiting for him and shivered. "It hurts," he said simply, because even if the Hulk could apparently think and reason, so far he'd only done so at about the level of a small child.

Support for his hypothesis: the Hulk scrunched his face up, obviously puzzling out what he was saying. "Banner free Hulk," he said slowly, "Hulk free Banner." He gave Bruce what was probably his version of a significant look.

Bruce's mouth fell open; he seemed to be doing that a lot, lately. " _You'll_ save me? Well…I suppose…you do save me, quite often, in fact." He struggled to process this radical reversal of his worldview. "So that's not just…incidental? I thought you just wanted to be free so you could destroy things."

The Hulk shrugged. "Hulk smash."

"Right. We can discuss this later." Bruce gazed up at his burden and nemesis. "A team effort, huh?" He rolled to his feet and placed his hands back on the barrier. "Okay, let's do this."

* * *

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed. Bruce and the Hulk struggled to break through to each other, Bruce rested and psyched himself up for the return of the pain, and then they started again. Sometimes it seemed like they might be making progress, but then the barrier would gain new force—probably a new dose of sedative. It was very frustrating.

This time the pain seemed to be lasting a little longer than usual.

"Whhaaa…haaanuhh?" Bruce slurred.

"General Ross, he's waking up."

Oh. He was actually in the physical world now. That explained a lot.

"I'll be right down," Ross said, his voice obviously coming through some kind of intercom system.

Bruce just lay there and hurt. He'd been spoiled by his dissociative bubble and the long stretch of years since he'd last been at Ross' tender mercies. He should really be making some kind of attempt to escape, but he could barely keep his eyes open, let alone attempt to dislodge the IV or, well, whatever else he could do while immobilized on a table.

He did reach tentatively for the Hulk, but there was still a great emptiness in his head where the rage should be. Perversely, he felt a little incomplete without it. And didn't that just speak wonders about his mental state.

"What did you do!?"

If he could have, Bruce would have flinched away from the rage in General Ross' voice.

"uhhhhh?" he managed.

"Look at this!"

Bruce blinked painfully at the datapad shoved in his face, but without his glasses it was just a blur. "Nnnnn," he said. It was apparently some kind of video, because the sounds of shouting and general chaos came through just fine.

"Um, excuse me, General?" someone interrupted fearfully.

"What is it!?"

"Um, his eyes don't appear to be focusing properly, I don't think he can see it…"

There was a scuffle, and then his glasses appeared in front of his eyes.

"We'll have to hold them; I doubt we can fit them over…"

Bruce didn't hear the rest of it. He was too busy being horrified by what he was looking at. A dozen people were contorting bizarrely, body growing and shrinking, random extra limbs sprouting, screaming in pain and horror. Other were horribly still.

"See it now?" Ross demanded. "This is the first test of the serum we refined from your blood! Almost seventy percent fatality rate, and those that did survive are freaks, barely able to move or function, or driven mad! Useless!"

 _All those people, dead because of me…_ Bruce thought, a single tear escaping despite his severe dehydration. _If I'd been faster, hidden better, escaped sooner…_

"So how are you doing this? How can you hide the formula even within your own blood? Answer me!" Ross did something outside of Bruce's range of vision that ratcheted the agony up another few notches.

"Hhnnnghh!" Bruce insisted when he could think again. _I don't know, I don't know, just stop, please, I don't know!_

"You know, one of our scientists has a theory," Ross said, a cruel smile on his face. "He thinks that there is no essential difference between your formula and Doctor Erskine's, or what we used on those poor bastards in that video."

"Unnh?"

"He thinks that it's not the formula itself that yielded different results, but the subjects. Steve Rogers already had the essence of Captain America inside him, just waiting to be set free. He was _worthy_ of such greatness. And then there were our subjects—prisoners, criminals, the dregs of society. What potential did they have? Even the so-called Abomination; a soldier born, when given unlimited power, he used it for unlimited destruction. The formula takes what is already there and highlights it." He leaned in, and Bruce had nowhere to back away to, from his physical presence or his words. "And then there's you. The perfect monster. Guess you had it in you the whole time."

Bruce started to hyperventilate, the stabs of pain welcome distractions from this horrible theory. Of course he'd known, he'd always known, that his mistake turned him into a freak, a monster, a creature that hurts everyone around it, but he'd never thought, never realized, that all that had been true before he ever set foot in a lab. Everyone knew the Hulk was a monster, but no one, including him, had realized that Bruce Banner was one first.

But was it really that much of a shock? He'd invented this formula, hadn't he? The greatest weapon of mass destruction since the atomic bomb. Perhaps General Ross hadn't been completely forthright describing what exactly he was supposed to be doing, but Bruce was a genius, he must have known, on some level. Perhaps he'd even known what would happen when he decided to test his experiments on himself, giving in to the voice of the monster inside.

"But we'll figure it out," Ross was saying. He'd probably been speaking for some time now. "The samples start to degrade only hours after we take them; how that kid managed to form a vault we might never know. But no matter. We can just keep doing this forever. Why, we've already learned that a sample taken directly from the heart is the most effective, damned if I know why, so maybe we'll have a breakthrough and we can finally put you down like the animal you are. We've got quite the set-up going; want to see?"

The various doctors and scientists in the room all started babbling protests while Ross undid several of the straps and tilted Bruce's head up, helpfully holding his glasses in front of his face.

Even so, it took Bruce a few moments to process what he was seeing. His ribs were cracked and spread open, and he was _looking at his heart_. It pumped obscenely on, a large needle stuck directly into it and pulling blood as fast as his body could produce it.

"Everyone was sure you'd die, of infection if nothing else, but it didn't even pause. You are some kind of freak, you know that, Banner? Never seen anything like it."

The shock was finally enough to send Bruce flying back into the relative safety of his mind.

* * *

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," Bruce chanted, rocking back and forth with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. "Oh god, oh god…"

"Banner! Free Hulk!"

"I did this. This is all my fault, everything is my fault, everything I touch is poisoned, ruined, destroyed…"

"Rrraarrrghhh!"

Bruce finally stopped babbling, peering up at the Hulk like he'd forgotten he was there. "What?"

The Hulk kicked the barrier in frustration. "Free Hulk! Free Banner!"

"Right. Yes. There's nothing I can do for those poor souls from the first test, but if we can get out of here, we can keep anyone else from dying." Bruce rose to his feet, reaching for the barrier as he went. "The samples degrade outside my body, that's what Ross said, so if we can escape, that's it, it's over."

"'Bout time," the Hulk grumbled.

Bruce froze. "Wait. The samples degrade without me. No more me, no more tests." He slowly lowered his hands.

"Banner!"

"I could be caught again at any time, so even if we escaped now, that wouldn't really be keeping people safe. And that's totally discounting what I could do personally while on the loose. If Ross is right, I don't just contain a bad thing; I _am_ a bad thing."

He slowly lowered himself to the ground, putting his back to the barrier. "No human being could survive having half an autopsy like that. And the formula really doesn't have much of an effect on me when I'm not, er, 'Hulked out.' They don't know that, so they don't understand what's happening here." He looked up at the Hulk, who looked even more pissed than usual, sensing that something bad was about to happen even though he couldn't understand where Bruce was going with this. "I'm reaching for you, and you're protecting me, just like you said. I need to stop reaching."

He settled into a meditative position, resolutely ignoring the raging Hulk behind his back, and concentrated on being Bruce, contained solely within his own body, and on letting go.

* * *

Three weeks, four days, eleven hours and seventeen minutes after Bruce Banner disappeared from Stark Tower, the Avengers burst into the compound where SHIELD intelligence insisted he was being held.

"Tony, we need a plan!" Captain America said to Iron Man's back. "You never listen…"

Tony tore through the compound, using his repulsors to race down the corridors at wildly unsafe speeds. He didn't encounter anyone on the way. He wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad sign, though it did mean that he didn't accidentally kill anyone as he blew by. He wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing, either.

Logically, Ross would have kept Bruce in the most protected part of the compound, so he focused on heading for the very center, which the blueprints showed as heavily fortified. He forced himself to slow down as he approached the big room, noting all the medical equipment with mixed concern and disgust.

A still steaming cup of coffee showed how recently the complex had been evacuated—whoever Fury got his information from must have tattled. If they'd escaped with Bruce, Tony was going to find out who it was and…have words with them.

He released the thrusters and touched down with a clunk, walking into the room on his own two feet. It looked like a very sterile, very high class torture chamber, which is probably exactly what it was. Top-of-the-line medical equipment filled the room, the professional air only offset by the odd splatter of blood. This room also showed signs of a recent and hasty departure. Tony retracted his faceplate, determined to search for clues.

He didn't have to search far.

"Tony? Tony, you have to answer your comm when we're on mission!" Steve said, leading the other Avengers into the room at a run. "Anything could…Tony? What's wrong?"

Wordlessly, Tony stepped to the side, showing them Bruce's mutilated body, discarded in the corner like trash.

"Is he…?"

Natasha was the first to move, efficiently stepping around her teammates to check for a pulse.

"His chest is fucking cut open!" Tony shouted at her, which she ignored.

"He's dead," she confirmed.

"Then we're too late."

"You think?" Tony demanded harshly.

Thor was the first to brave Tony's fury—he'd always had more bravery than sense. "We came as quickly as we could," he said gently. "Come, the least we can do is take him away from this place."

The rest of the team braced themselves for an explosion, but when Tony's shoulders slumped in defeat, that was even worse. "Yeah. That is absolutely the least we can do."

Tony insisted on carrying him. The others had no trouble yielding that right; Bruce had fought alongside them as a valuable comrade, but in the short time they'd all known each other Tony and Bruce had bonded almost unnervingly quickly, and Tony had done little but blame himself and mainline coffee in the weeks since Bruce was stolen from right out under their noses…and while under Tony's express protection.

* * *

The plane ride back was painfully tense. Tony had removed his armor so he could hold the body more comfortably, but his face was so blank he might as well still be wearing a mask. Since he'd settled himself on the floor with Bruce's head cradled in his lap, he hadn't moved, hardly seemed to breathe.

Clint and Natasha were up front flying the plane, but the rest of the Avengers had nothing to do but hover around the edges, trying not to intrude on what was obviously an intensely private moment for Tony and to process their own grief and sense of failure at being too late.

Steve jumped when Tony's head abruptly snapped up, eyes searching. "What do you need?" he asked, desperate to do _something_.

"Is there a first aid kit onboard?"

"Tony…"

"Just answer the question!"

Steve sighed, but he dutifully went and fetched the absurdly well-stocked kit from the rear of the plane. He would indulge Tony until they landed in New York, then they could talk about coming to terms with this loss. Hopefully this would distract Tony from the barely-disguised pity on Thor's face, which was sure to infuriate the man.

After handing over the kit, he retreated to Thor's side. They both watched as Tony removed a sterile pad, dipped it in rubbing alcohol, and began gently washing away some of the blood spatter. What difference that could possibly make when they could actually look inside the man's chest cavity was beyond Steve, but given that he was practically climbing the walls wishing he could _do_ something he could hardly begrudge Tony this.

Once his face was clean, Tony paused, obviously daunted by the mess that used to be his friend's torso, then determinedly began scrubbing at a bloodstain on Bruce's sweatpants. This attempt at granting him some modesty by his kidnappers was a sick contrast to the complete disregard of human decency involved in essentially autopsying someone who had clearly been still alive…or at least he had when they started.

"It's set."

Steve blinked. "What?"

Tony didn't look at him, scrubbing harder at the stain. "It's set. Days old at least."

"This—" Steve waved his hand in the general direction of the body "—probably wasn't an isolated incident. They had him for weeks."

"Yeah."

Steve couldn't help but notice Tony's frown, the first expression that he'd seen since they boarded the plane. "What is it?"

"It's just…you saw the…restraints. If they had him chained to the table and incapacitated, obviously they'd have to change his clothes fairly regularly. But I've washed enough bloodstains out of my clothes in recent months to know that these stains have had awhile to set. I'd guess the same for his skin, though it's harder to tell. I thought we were only a few hours too late, but…" he trailed off.

"Perhaps this is another difference between our peoples, but on Asgard, if a fallen warrior were left for several days, there would be visible decay," Thor volunteered.

Steve kicked his shin, painfully bruising his toes in the process. ' _Stop making it worse,'_ he mouthed, scowling.

Tony didn't react to the macabre observation, still frowning and futilely scrubbing.

"I do not—" Thor began, and Steve hauled him off to the rear of the plane where they at least had the illusion of privacy.

"Stop talking!" he hissed.

"Tony Stark is a man of science and reason," Thor pointed out in what passed for a whisper with him. "Will he not wish to know all the facts?"

Steve opened and closed his mouth. That…was actually a good point.

Now it was Thor's turn to frown. "What is he doing?"

Steve turned around just in time to see Tony plunge a huge needle directly into Bruce's exposed heart.

"What the hell are you doing?" Steve demanded, racing over and seizing the needle. "What is this?"

"Pure adrenaline. I saw it in a movie once," Tony said with the barest spark of his usual spirit. "Well, a tv show, actually. Firefly. You should watch it sometime. Space cowboys."

"Tony," Steve said sternly, interrupting the babble. "What are you—"

There was a sickening crack from behind them.

"Now what?"

All three men turned to see, with no small amount of horror and disgust, that one of the much-abused bones in Bruce's arm had broken, visibly pushing through his skin.

"Did you bump him?" Tony demanded, glaring at Thor.

"I did not. Was there perhaps, how do you say, tur-bu-lence?"

And then, to their mingled hope and disbelief, Bruce's torso began to knit itself back together, a telltale flush of green spreading over his limbs in the unmistakable first stage of a transformation into the Hulk.

It was Thor who first recovered from the paralyzing shock, moving to the hatch. "He will most likely be very angry," he said candidly.

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea," Steve said, still trying to process what exactly was happening here.

"We can't throw him out of the plane," Tony insisted. "Not after everything that's happened."

He was outvoted when the Hulk's eyes snapped open, took in the enclosing metal walls, and threw himself out into the open air. Thor barely had time to get the door open before he just went through it. They rode out the sudden, violent rocking caused by the Hulk's massive weight and listened numbly to the triumphant bellow slowly fading into the distance.

"What the hell was that!?" Clint yelled from the cockpit.

* * *

Director Fury was pissed.

The whole month Banner had been missing, Stark had been all but useless, reluctantly accepting missions only so long as a half dozen agents were diligently searching for the missing man, and running back at the end to resume the search himself. He had to be forced to eat, drugged to sleep, and he wouldn't even entertain discussions about resuming weapons manufacturing for SHIELD. So he threw all his considerable resources into the hunt, determined to resolve this one way or the other.

And now Stark had apparently _resurrected_ the man, then allowed him to escape without the slightest clue of where they were. He could have dropped an enraged Hulk in the middle of a major metropolis!

That in fact the Hulk had landed on a deserted island was of no import. It was the principle of the thing.

And then! After all that fuss, Stark had stopped even the minimal participation in SHIELD's work to hover around the island in that damn suit and try and talk the Hulk down. As if that wasn't the most ridiculous thing in a long list of ridiculous things Tony Stark had ever attempted.

It had been almost a week, and there was still no sign of rationality from the beast, not that anyone but Stark thought there would be. There also was no sign of Banner, which according to a careful review of General Ross' notes—the man himself was still, in a rare show of good sense, lying low—was unprecedented. The longest a particular Incident had ever been clocked at was thirty hours.

The working theory was that while the Hulk had somehow miraculously survived being dead for an undetermined number of days because of his bizarre and poorly understood physiology, the human Bruce Banner had not.

Stark would hear none of this. Apparently the Hulk was talking now, and apparently he'd informed Tony that he was angry at Banner and wasn't leaving. At this rate Fury was going to have to bomb the whole island, and Tony Stark along with it, before he had a moment's peace.

"That's it," he declared to the empty room, placing his Stark Tablet carefully on his desk and missing the days when he had actual paperwork he could slam dramatically without breaking. "This has gone on long enough."

"Funny, I was about to say the same thing."

He whirled around, even more pissed now that his distraction had let someone sneak up on him, and froze. There in the doorway was a filthy, exhausted-looking Tony Stark, wearing the smallest, most genuine smile he'd ever seen on the man, and with an unconscious Bruce Banner slung over his shoulder.

* * *

Bruce woke up. And to think he'd once thought that he could no longer be surprised by the depths of his bad luck. He didn't seem to be in pain, but he was the most tired and sore he'd ever been, which considering how many times he'd woken up naked in the wilderness after running hundreds of miles and changing his shape, was really saying something. But at the same time he could feel that he was lying on a bed, so he couldn't be in that other world in his mind. Still smelled like medical equipment, so maybe he'd died and gone to hell.

Right. He should be so lucky.

"Please…"

A clatter, not unlike someone startling and falling out of their chair, came from his left. So he wasn't alone. And probably not in hell, then. To finally be left alone…that was heaven, not hell.

"Please…just let me die…"

There was a sharp intake of breath. "After all the trouble I've gone to? Not likely."

Bruce's eyes shot open. "Tony!?"

It was indeed Tony Stark, looking two steps away from death himself, hovering anxiously over what Bruce vaguely recognized as his room in Stark Tower. He'd only stayed there a week, but it was etched into his memory as the most at home he'd felt in…possibly ever. He struggled to sit up, but he just didn't have the energy to move and talk at the same time.

"What…?"

"We found you," Tony said simply.

"You…looked?"

It took a moment to identify the expression on Tony's face as hurt. "Of course we did."

Bruce attempted to process this. "Why?"

"You're part of the team now, we were hardly going to abandon you," Tony said, an edge of anger in his voice now. "I don't know what those bastards told you—"

This time Bruce did manage to sit up, though he almost blacked out at the accompanying head rush. "They did! Tell me things. Tony—"

"Whoa, relax. We can't discount the possibility that you are immortal at this point, but it still won't do you any good to rush things."

"I— _immortal_ —never mind. While I was…there…R-Ross told me that they'd unlocked the secret of my formula."

"Well, we have seen a rash of new gamma-powered supervillains lately."

Bruce looked stricken.

"What? You didn't know?" As soon as he said it Tony could have kicked himself. Obviously the guy didn't know, he'd been imprisoned then dead then wherever he went when the Hulk was rampaging.

"The last time we spoke, no one had survived the process," Bruce said quietly. "How…how many people have been killed?"

It took Tony a moment to understand the question. "Are you kidding me? What those mon—crazies did isn't your fault!"

"It's my blood, Tony."

"And it's their choice, Bruce."

"Well what about all the 'test subjects' that died? You saw the bodies?"

Tony couldn't quite keep his expression neutral—the mutated remains they'd found had hardly been recognizable as human.

Bruce sat back a bit, bizarrely satisfied by Tony's lack of response. "They were literally poisoned by my blood. My fault."

At this obvious lunacy Tony rallied a bit. "You weren't exactly shooting them up," he reminded Bruce.

"Doesn't matter. If I hadn't let myself be captured, none of this would have happened."

"Well, considering that they snatched you right out of the Tower I think I deserve the lion's share of the blame for that one," Tony said, unable to look Bruce in the eye as he confessed. "I realize this is a bit—a lot—inadequate, but…I'm sorry."

"I would eventually have been captured anyway," Bruce said. "Please don't blame yourself."

Tony looked back at Bruce, his tone making him uneasy.

"Ross explained it to me."

Okay, now Tony was _very_ uneasy.

"The formula I developed is basically the same as Doctor Erskine's," Bruce asserted, still eerily calm. "It takes what's there and makes it more. Steve was a good man with a big heart, and now he's, well, Captain America."

"Okay…" Tony said, mind working furiously. "I haven't been participating in the recent captures, but I think I remember Clint mentioning that some of their mutations reflected their lives before that: thugs with enormous muscles, an etymologist with wings and a stinger, that sort of thing."

"Exactly. And I was a violent, out of control murderer waiting to happen."

"Wait, what?"

"I'm my father."

"NO."

"Tony," Bruce said patiently, "try to be reasonable."

" _I_ need to be reasonable? Have you gone completely insane?"

"Not yet. But I am far too dangerous to be trusted. Maybe you were right, about the Other Guy being misunderstood and not as much of a monster as everyone believes, but you were wrong about _me_. _I_ am just as much of a monster as they think he is."

"That—you—Bruce, you told me that you were using your superpowers to deliver babies and cure diseases in forgotten parts of the world, asking for nothing in return. You're half a step away from rescuing kittens from trees! _Steve_ feels inadequate next to that!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Tony."

"I'm not. The rest of us, we're soldiers, assassins, weapons manufacturers—we can protect people, sometimes, but you, you can save them."

"It hardly balances out. Anyone could help those people—"

"The point is that anyone _won't_."

"—so the world shouldn't have to suffer my existence."

Tony studied Bruce's blank face. "You did something while you were a prisoner. They didn't kill you. Somehow, you killed yourself."

There. A slight twitch.

"What the fuck were you thinking!?" Tony yelled, ignoring how Bruce flinched away from his anger. "No wonder the Hulk was so determined not to let you back out! Do you have any idea how we felt when we thought we were too late to rescue you?"

"I didn't think anyone was looking," Bruce mumbled. "I didn't think they'd bother."

The anger drained, leaving only weariness. With a muttered curse, Tony crawled up onto the bed and carefully wrapped an arm around Bruce's shoulders, like he could physically hold him in this world. Bruce didn't seem to have enough strength to push him away, but he stayed stiff and upright.

"I will always come after you," Tony informed him. "I promised the Hulk, but I would have done it anyway. I'm going to build you a fortress to keep the rest of the world out, and I'm going to follow you around and bug you until you believe me when I tell you that you're a hero. The whole team looked for you, Bruce. Even Fury set aside resources just for the search, which in spy-talk is practically a proposal."

Tony forced himself to stop talking and just waited. His own flirtation with suicidal behavior had taught him that at the end of the day, no amount of support from friends and family could help if he wasn't willing to make the effort on his own behalf. Bruce had been through a horribly traumatic experience, after years alone and on the run, and apparently on top of a horribly traumatic childhood. But he was going to get through this. He had to. And Tony was going to be there to help.

He almost missed it when Bruce relaxed infinitesimally, leaning his head against Tony's shoulder.

Tony let out a long sigh of relief, twining around the other man like an octopus and ignoring the half-hearted protests. The way Bruce sank into the embrace like he hadn't been hugged in years—which, sadly, was probably true—spoke much louder than words.

"I've got you," Tony murmured, sounding like a teenaged girl in a Lifetime movie and unable to bring himself to care. "We'll get through this together."

Bruce mumbled something against his neck.

Tony held on a little tighter. "Because you're worth it."


End file.
